Well… that’s not for me to sayI just paint the picturesI have no Masters in my lifeThat I am ordered to obey

From a distant echo Float the familiar sounds of my beloved guitarI follow my ears through the streets to my beloved Alhambra barThere I sit and watch the worldAs loves and lives unfold I catch a whisper on the windInterwoven with catholic gold

I walk these streets in dead men’s feet bequeathed to me upon defeat The price I pay I’m dammed to say will greet me on departure dayBut until then my mind is free to wander through this fantasy . . .